Mycroft
by MrSpiderlegs
Summary: Mycroft's childhood, teenage years, and adulthood. Why? Because I can. Will feature chubbychild!Mycroft, autistic!Sherlock, and future Johnlock and Mystrade. Rated T for now. Please be kind! Also, this will tie in with my other fic, 'No, She's Sleeping with the PE Teacher'. Rupert will be mentioned and there with be a 'when Mycroft first met Rupert' chapter and such.
1. Chapter 1

About half a year after Mycroft's sixth birthday, his parents informed him that he was to become an older brother. Mycroft had classmates who were older siblings and he had some idea of how the whole thing would play out, so he nodded at his mother and father and resumed reading _Little Lord Fauntleroy. _

As the months went on, his mother's stomach grew and grew until one evening she was rushed to hospital, and returned a few days later with a tiny pink bundle. His mother told him the new baby's name was Sherlock, and while privately Mycroft thought that was a funny name, he acknowledged the existence of his brother with a quick nod and then buried his unfortunately large nose in _A Neverending Story_. He was not really very interested in the baby. His classmate Billy told him that babies were loud, wet, and smelly, and even at seven Mycroft was very particular about his appearance and did not want any of the wetness or smelliness to rub off on him.

(Billy was one of Mycroft's preferred classmates; he didn't say cruel things about Mycroft's appearance.)

Sherlock cried a lot. It got to the point where their mother refused to answer his wails, instead opting for a glass (or a bottle) of wine and earplugs. One night Mycroft had had enough, and stormed into the nursery where a nine month old Sherlock lay.

"Sherlock," he said in as stern a tone as he could manage, "Do shut up." The baby didn't listen. "I've a very important test to take tomorrow, Sherlock. I need to sleep." If anything, Sherlock cried harder. Mycroft sighed heavily, and moved to sit in the rocking chair near the bassinet.

"Two by one is two, two by two is four, two by three is six, two by four is eight, two by five is ten, two by six is twelve..." Sherlock began to quiet down, snuffling and whimpering inquisitively. Mycroft continued practicing his basic sums, and by the time he got to the eights, his brother was asleep. Satisfied and exhausted, the nearly-eight year old went back to bed.

Every night Mycroft would go to the nursery after Sherlock had been put to bed and either read, conjugate French verbs, or recite sums to put the baby to sleep. Their mother cornered him one night and demanded to know how he was getting the baby to sleep, but when she tried reading from _Peter Pan, _Sherlock screamed bloody murder. So Mycroft resumed reciting his lessons to his brother before bed.

Coincidentally, the year Sherlock turned one, Mycroft received the highest marks in his grade.


	2. Chapter 2

When Mycroft was eight-and-a-half, Sherlock learned his first word. Nothing special, a mangled version of Mycroft's name, but their mother was viciously envious. Mycroft's first word, after all, was 'Papa', and she had wanted at least one child to acknowledge her first. Mycroft thought that she would have gotten her wish if she spent more time with Sherlock, but it probably wasn't very smart of him to say this out loud, as it earned him a sharp slap on the cheek.

While he had first been flippant towards baby Sherlock, Mycroft was quickly falling under his brother's spell. He found himself looking forward to their evening chats (one-sided though they were), and relished the company of a person who wouldn't make disparaging comments about his red hair, his nose, and his tummy. After a long day of cruel taunts about his appearance, of almost desperately keeping a stiff upper lip, of pretending that words could never hurt him, coming home to his darling elfin little brother who worshipped the ground he walked on was like hot tea on a cold day.

Mycroft was the one who recognized that there was something slightly different about Sherlock, the one who encouraged their parents to have a doctor look at him, the one who didn't discard the diagnosis because it made the family 'look bad'. Sherlock was autistic. That was the word the doctor used, and Mycroft had to ask her to repeat herself because Sherlock had no interest in coloured pencils or paints.

Sherlock-the-toddler would not play with the other children in his playgroup. He liked to line his toys up in order of size. He seemed unable to express wants non-verbally; Mycroft had never seen him point at a stuffed toy or book, and the toddler made eye contact so rarely it was as if he avoided it. Not to mention, he threw the most horrific tantrums. Finally, though it did not matter in the diagnostic, Sherlock would throw one of those tantrums if anyone other than Mycroft dared touch him.

(At the same time, Mycroft himself was diagnosed, not that he knew it, and was confirmed to be a high-functioning autistic.)

Their parents ignored the diagnosis and continued to treat Sherlock as though he could act normally if he wanted to. This bothered Mycroft but he didn't say anything, choosing instead to sit by Sherlock's side when the tiny tot threw violent fits over Mummy putting the green soldier near the yellow rocking horse.

Mycroft thought Sherlock was a difficult baby, but he loved him nonetheless. He liked how Sherlock made him feel important and special, and that it didn't matter if he was ugly and their father didn't like him. To Sherlock, Mycroft was wonderful because he was Mycroft and the boy relished the feeling.

Then, unfortunately, Sherlock had to grow up.


	3. Chapter 3

When Mycroft was twelve, he became acutely and uncomfortably aware of his own body. He also became acutely and uncomfortably aware of _other _people's bodies. Specifically boys. Specifically the way boys' bodies were much smaller than his own (amongst other things). Mycroft had never been very self-conscious as a child, despite his size and childhood bullies, but puberty and the sneers from his classmates were taking a definite toll on his self esteem.

Mycroft had always been a rather emotional child; as a toddler he cried for hours when his mother would leave the house to shop. He had gained some self control when he began school, but to his horror, all that self-control melted the first time a classmate in year eight called him a derogatory name. Perhaps it wouldn't have hurt so much if that boy hadn't been Billy, if his mother hadn't eyed his breakfast plate so disapprovingly that morning, if Sherlock didn't attract so many coos and pets for being so damn pretty. Well, those things didn't matter, because it did hurt. It hurt very much, and Mycroft found himself crying in the boy's room that day during lunch.

One day, when their mother was feeling particularly cruel and hungover, she called Mycroft over and proceeded to inform him that he was fat. Sherlock had been reading from the _Encyclopaedia Britannica _in the same room, and unfortunately got to hear everything that was said. Unfortunately for Mycroft, that is. Sherlock was fascinated at the array of emotions that played across his older brother's face and body and took great delight in repeating their mother's statements whenever he could, just to see those emotions again and again.

So Mycroft's only safe haven was taken away from him. His brother still looked gleeful upon seeing Mycroft, but it was no longer because the older boy would read to him and play pirates with him. Now it was because Mycroft was one of his toys.

(Eventually Mycroft learned to school his appearance so as not to give away the pain Sherlock was causing. This, coupled with the fact that Mycroft would no longer read to play pirates, sent Sherlock into the most violent tantrum the Holmes home had ever seen. Hating himself for it, Mycroft sat down with Sherlock and, once the tears and screams had ended, explained exactly why he would no longer play with his little brother. Sherlock immediately promised never to call Mycroft a nasty name again, and then proceeded to beg his older brother to read from his biology textbook.)

It seemed that, whenever the Holmes family would go out on their obligatory Saturday outing to the park/museum/library, people would gather to ooh and aah at the spectacularly beautiful family. Father Holmes was tall, with a mop of mahogany hair, a well-groomed beard, and stern brown eyes. Mummy Holmes was also tall, her hair a brown tangle of curls, her eyes a similar, colder brown.

(Grandfather Holmes had the blue-green-grey eyes that both Holmes boys shared.)

Then people would look at Sherlock, in his pram as a baby and toddler, walking next to Mycroft as a small child. The smaller-than-average child was usually seen with a blank look on his face, but this did not deter people from strolling up to him and trying to ruffle his auburn curls or pinch his freckled cheeks. Whenever anyone tried to do so, Sherlock would yell and hide behind Mycroft, prompting people to look at the older boy.

Given that Mycroft was chubby and sour looking, his hair a much brighter red than his father and brother's, people tended to assume things. Namely,

"Oh, it was so kind of you to adopt!"

Mycroft found these moments humiliating. Father Holmes found them amusing, and Sherlock and his mother ignored them.

Mycroft maintained the thought that it would get better as he got older. Grandmother Holmes assured him that he would lose weight as he got taller, but Mycroft insisted this was ridiculous. He would not lose weight; it would be shifted elsewhere. Grandmother Holmes did not like this response and quietly asked her son if this could be the last visit until Christmas please and thank you.

No, Mycroft held onto the belief that as his classmates matured, they would become less cruel. That their decreasing cruelty would make a difference in how he viewed himself. What Mycroft didn't know- or perhaps he did, and he was just trying desperately to convince himself otherwise. What he didn't know is that people will always be cruel; they just don't need words to be it.

(**AN: **This chapter... bleh. I'm not completely satisfied with it and it's a little longer than I expected. Argh it just went everywhere and now I feel like I should apologize, well. Shan't. Ahem, so there was a slightly bigger skip in age here, next chapter Mycroft will be in his mid-to-late teens. Also according to Sir Doyle, Mycroft is seven years older than Sherlock. So there. Sherlock's autism isn't going to be shown in a lot of depth in this fic, partially because this is Mycroft's fic, but also because I'm only running on Wikipedia articles and faint memories of autistic classmates. Mycroft's own autism will be hinted at, but I have him put down as a high-functioning autistic, so it'll be a little different than what some may be expecting. What am I talking about, 'some'. I think I have one reader. I love you very very much for reading this by the way. I had a point somewhere... Forgot. Ah, dull. Well my lovely(s?)! I may not get the next chapter out for a few days, irritating eClass assignments and all. Also if you ever notice any plot holes in my fics, something that I haven't explained, please let me know and I shall do my best to remedy that. Or ignore it completely, you never know. 'Til next chapter!)


	4. Chapter 4

When Mycroft was seventeen he had a wish. He would wish for the same thing every night when he went to bed and every morning when he woke up.

'Please, just let me sleep for a hundred years, I'm so tired. Please let me sleep until I wake up and someone loves me unconditionally.'

Oh, Sherlock loved him, that was clear to see. But the ten year old just required so much effort, so much energy, energy his big brother didn't have. Mycroft was always tired, despite the fact that his insomnia had not yet kicked in and would not until he graduated from university.

(Later Greg would admit to feeling the same way, and often, and that he'd had a therapist call that a symptom of depression.)

At seventeen Mycroft was very well aware of the fact that he liked boys _much _more than girls. Well. Mycroft didn't really like anyone at seventeen, not even himself, so what that really means is that the sight and smell of boys' bodies were what Mycroft liked, not so much their habits of not deodorizing, of using homosexuality as an insult, of mocking anyone different. Mycroft could have lived without those nasty little habits.

Mycroft was also very well aware of what _happened _to boys who ruined their sheets from dreams about other boys. Father Holmes had shown him that, after finding Mycroft's sketchbook that was basically a shrine to Adam Ant and David Bowie (along with all of their music on vinyls or CDs or tapes and at least five posters of each but dear God don't tell Sherlock or Greg, or fuck, even _John, _because they'd never let him live it down and he'd have to melt into a puddle of embarrassed goo if they ever found out). Coupled with the severe talking to about 'upholding the family honour' and how one must be discreet about such indiscretions, Father Holmes had also informed Mycroft that if he ever caught the teenager in bed with another teenaged boy, he'd find himself penniless in the worst part of London.

So Mycroft was not a very happy teenager.

Mycroft was a downright _miserable _teenager when he made the mistake of forgetting his book bag in a classroom, where some rugby-playing arsehole had decided to nick it, and then go through it. Said rugby-playing arsehole broke Mycroft's best pen and all of his sketch pencils, vandalized his textbooks and notebooks, and finally, taken his sketchbook and dictated its contents to everyone in the cafeteria one fine Thursday afternoon at lunch.

Thank the heavens (Mycroft doesn't believe in God; atheism and nihilism are very Holmesian traits, ever since Barnabas Holmes renounced God one Sunday morning in 1887) for the endless Holmes Family Fortune and Reputation, because the rugby-playing arsehole was booted from the school before he could say 'nepotism', thanks to Principal Williams, nee Holmes. This didn't stop the other schoolchildren from saying cruel things to and about Mycroft, and it certainly didn't keep them from doing cruel things to him.

Like carving homophobic graffiti into his seats and desks in various classrooms.

Like tripping him when he was on his way down the stairs to his advanced Maths class.

Like calling his home at all hours of the night, threatening to 'fuck a fag up'.

(That only happened once; Mummy Holmes had picked up the phone and deduced, quite calmly, from the caller's voice, that he was a serial masturbator and that he lusted after his stepsister, and should he ever repeat this disgusting act of a prank, he would find himself shipped to a Christian repentance camp before he could blink. Mycroft had been in the room and stared at his mother with wide, terrified blue eyes and had wanted to ask what she could deduce from _his _voice before deciding that was a bad idea and maybe the Adam Ant and David Bowie paraphernalia was quite enough to be going on with and should probably go in the bin.)

It frustrated Mycroft to tears, not that anyone besides Sherlock knew, and _he _only knew because he caught Mycroft retching into the toilet one evening after a crying jag had taken a turn towards a hysterical-sobbing jag. It was mortifying because the ten year old had walked stiffly towards his older brother, patted the teenager stiffly on the back, and said stiffly, "There there."

But that's tangential.

Mycroft was so upset because all he wanted were friends. It's not his fault he has all of the emotional range of a teaspoon. He could hardly be blamed for his utter inability to put any sort of sentimental inflection into his voice, his awful, cracking voice. And who could place any culpability on him for being so unfailingly polite that it made people uncomfortable? Not to mention his face, which he hated, and his body, which he also hated. He was certain that if he was pretty (like Sherlock), someone would want to be friends with him. He was so lonely, so ashamed of himself for feeling so lonely. It was not a Holmes' way. Sentiment, after all, is a chemical defect found on the losing side.

(**AN: **This one went all over the place again but I feel like it worked, somehow. So yes. This chapter and the next one or so are going to be a little sad, until he meets Greg, and then I plan to torture you all with UST. Muahaha! Thank you so, so much for your lovely reviews, they make me so happy, really they just make my day. 'Til next chapter, then!)


	5. Chapter 5

(**Trigger Warning: Uncomfortable loss of virginity/dubious consent.)**

When Mycroft was attending Cambridge, he fell in love. Not surprising, a lot of people fall in love in university. But Mycroft was a Holmes; Holmeses did not fall in love. His father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather, all married for wealth and connections. Mycroft was perfectly aware of this, and had been since he was sixteen and his father showed him five different marriageable young women, and told him he would have to pick one.

Thank the gods he didn't believe in that the old man had gone into cardiac arrest and was now hooked up to a machine in the private hospital they had paid way too much for.

Mycroft's subconscious was prone to tangents. Actually, he was pretty sure his subconscious was Sherlock, but that's, well, tangential.

The point was, there was an incredibly fit young man in Mycroft's Political Science class, and said young man was struggling with the course. So the professor recommended Mycroft as a tutor. Over the next several weeks, Mycroft's disinterest and vague irritation with the young man faded into a passion the likes of which frightened him.

What's worse, the young man noticed, and took unapologetic advantage of Mycroft's attraction to him. A lingering touch on the back of his neck accompanied a wish for a night off. Lips brushing the shell of his ear as he requested that Mycroft write the outline of his midterm essay. Drawing the pads of his fingers over Mycroft's when accepting a pen. Naturally, Mycroft misunderstood this, naive as he was to the machinations of pretty, popular people.

At the end of term, there was a wild party in the dorms. Mycroft stayed in his room and tapped out the fingerings for Mozart's piano concerto no. 15 on his desk, the contents of Sherlock's latest letter flitting through his mind. He was sure he could call the principal, smooth things over. Holmeses were on Etonian alumni lists five generations back, it wouldn't do to break tradition.

When the young man stumbled drunkenly into Mycroft's room and grinned endearingly at him, all thoughts of Sherlock and Mozart and familial shame fled his mind. He was hard pressed to think of anything for the better part of the next hour, as the young man kissed him and touched him under a haze of cheap beer and rum. The thing is, despite his hormonal fog, he remembers the events of that night in perfect, awful clarity. He remembers being pushed down onto his bed, remembers being rid of his clothes, remembers the horrid mix of thrill and fear as the young man kissed him with more force, spread his legs, and touched him in ways and places that he had only dreamed of.

He remembers the sharp pain of being penetrated, the tug and burn on the young man inside him, the hot swell of tears behind his eyes when he realized what was really going on. He remembers the young man grunting his completion, pulling out and tossing the condom in the wastebasket Mycroft kept near his bed.

He remembers the young man placing a sloppy kiss on his mouth and saying,

"Now that's out of your system, right?"

before sauntering out of Mycroft's room. Mycroft remembers the applause that greeted the young man as he left, remembers hearing someone congratulating the young man for 'melting the Ice Queen'.

He remembers the cold fury building up inside of him as he pulled his clothes back on and placed a few, quick calls.

Sherlock remained at Eton.

The next term, Mycroft glanced around the lecture hall of his Political Science class and noted with vindictive pleasure that the young man was nowhere to be seen.

(**AN: **Sorry for the long wait! Took me a while to find my mojo. Also; yes this will contain non-explicit sexual content. I'm not comfortable giving detailed descriptions of what's going on in Mycroft's pants, so. Don't worry, his sex life will improve in a few chapters.)


	6. Chapter 6

(**AN: **I think you should re-read chapter four before you read this one. Unless you've just stumbled across the fic. In that case, hello! Beware, for here there be Holmeses.)

Half a dozen years after his graduation, Mycroft was training with the best of MI5. The details surrounding this event are of the sort that warrant the disappearance of any who might accidentally discover them, so they will not be discussed here. Or ever.

Shortly after Mycroft's graduation, Father Holmes' health improved enough for him to move back to the townhouse in London. Sherlock had been quick to flee to that dreadful apartment on Montague Street shortly after the news of this was relayed to him. Mycroft was enjoying the freedom of his own flat and therefore greeted his Mummy's requests for him to return 'home' with distaste. Not to her face, of course, Mycroft liked living. He remained at his flat, and satisfied Mummy's empty nest syndrome by visiting for tea or supper once or twice a week, when he knew his father would be in bed.

Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft harboured no delusions about their father. The man was a bully. Ten years ago, Mycroft would have quivered uneasily at the mere thought of referring to the man as such, which only showed the extent of the damage the foul man had wreaked upon his eldest. At twenty-eight, he was able to reflect upon his childhood without any such trepidation. No, he had no fond memories of his father, even before Sherlock's birth. Had he bothered to tie any emotions to his relationship with his father, and to childhood memories involving the man, he would have found disgust and shame, towards both himself and his father. A man who bullies children is, after all, a rather disgusting creature. But Mycroft was above things as base as emotions.

Ahem.

So Father Holmes was conscious and able to putter around his home as only a six-foot-six, seventy-three year old man with heart issues can. One of the things he decided to do while puttering around was call a family meeting, to discuss his will.

This is how Mycroft found himself in his childhood home, numerous bruises from training hidden underneath a dapper bespoke suit, sweating nervously under the hawk-like glare of his father.

(Sherlock was too busy trying to avoid prostituting himself to fund his drug habit to attend, but Mycroft told their parents that he was ill.)

"I've noticed, Mycroft," the elderly viper intoned, bespectacled gaze on what Mycroft deduced to be a contract, "that you have not bothered to contact any of the women your mother and I have decided would make good wives. Nor have you, from my understanding, made any attempt to come in contact with a woman _at all." _

Mycroft repressed the urge to swallow the lump in his throat, and remembered his instructor's advice for dealing with predators.

'_Look the bastards in the eye and let them know you ain't afraid. Nine times outta ten that'll work. The tenth time the fucker's a psycho who don't like challenge. Hope it ain't the tenth time.'_

"I fail to see your point, Father." There. No tremor, holding the old man's (terrifying, paralyzing, cold) gaze. Siger Holmes was taken aback. Usually Mycroft was meek and deferential towards his father. He wasn't so sure he liked the new Mycroft.

Narrowing his reptilian eyes, the man leaned forward and breathed in his son's face, "I trust you remember a conversation of ours from ten years ago."

"Eleven. Yes." Mummy looked surprised at his tone. Such pique was common to hear from Sherlock, not Mycroft, and it made her uncomfortable. Something was not quite right.

"Then I trust that you have chosen a suitable woman for yourself, even if you have ignored you mother's and my choices."

"No, Father, I have not." How on earth did his mouth get so _dry?_

Before his father could respond, Mycroft quickly added, "I feel I should inform you that I have done quite well for myself."

Dead. Silence.

"Oh?" The old bastard's voice was devoid of any inflection, so monotonous it bordered on bored.

"Yes."

"Well, your father and I are quite please to hear that, Mycroft, but what does-"

"Violet." Mummy quieted. Cold fury swelled unbidden in Mycroft's stomach. _Do not talk to my mother like that you awful man._

Siger changed the subject. _Good, _Mycroft thought. _He's unsettled. His threats mean less than nothing to me, now._

"I noticed something while reviewing bank statements, Mycroft."

"Oh?" Mycroft mimicked his father's bored tone perfectly. Mummy looked at him, horrified at his insolence.

"Yes. Sherlock's trust fund has been switched over to your governance. I was curious as to why."

"I see Sherlock far more frequently than either you or Mummy, and have a better idea of his needs. He is of an age where, if provided the means, he would allow his childish whims to take over his spending. I have made sure to provide him with a monthly allowance that is more than satisfactory for rent and other living expenses. I meant only to lift a small burden from your shoulders, father."

Something gleamed behind Siger's eyes.

"Preparing to take on your duties as head of the family?" _Oh hell._

"I have made my thoughts on that matter clear, several times." _That is to say, no thank you, can I leave now?_

"I fail to see how you can be so insistent, when you are clearly well suited to the task."

"I do not refuse because I am incapable, Father, I refuse because I want other things for myself."

"Oh, of course. I assume your refusal has nothing to do with the fact that you would be expected to take a wife, once inheriting the family wealth and titles."

Violet Holmes was a pretty sharp lady. Things simply did not slip by her. From the conversation between her eldest son and her husband, she could not help but deduce the source of the animosity between them.

Turning to her son, she said, "How _is _your young master Hamilton?" Mycroft was ashamed of how he reacted, and would later share a bottle of wine with the then-sixteen year old Anthea, though of course that was not the name she used, in an attempt to drown out his self-loathing. He stiffened, his breath caught in his throat, his eyes widened, and he slowly turned towards his mother. Siger was steadily turning purple.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked softly. Mummy smiled disarmingly.

"Well, you two got on so well at Cambridge, I only thought that you must have kept in... contact with him."

"I have seen nor heard of him since the end of term. Eight years ago, Mummy, surely you knew that."

"_Boy." _Oh, Siger hadn't choked to death on his indignation. Pity. Violet and Mycroft looked at him with concern and contempt, respectively.

"For your own sake I am going to assume that your relationship with this young man was merely platonic."

Well, Mycroft hadn't had any intention of 'coming out' to his parents _ever, _but it appeared as though he would have to bite the bullet on this one.

"If it please you." Oh, Violet loved being right. It was one of the poorer traits Sherlock had inherited from her.

"_What."_

Mycroft scoffed. "Really, Father, I would have expected such idiocy from Sherlock- actually, no. _Sherlock _knew my sexuality even before _I_ did. Surely you did as well, or else you would not have found it necessary to threaten me with destitution."

"You did _what?_" Violet squawked. Siger and Mycroft ignored her, too consumed in their staring competition to respond. Eventually Siger stood and gestured violently towards the door.

"Get out of my house." He spat.

"_Gladly._" Mycroft hissed in response. He gathered his coat and swept out the door in a flurry of gray silk.

When he arrived at his flat (roughly an hour later as he had stopped to purchase expensive liquor) there was a message on the coffee table in his living room. Identifying the chicken scratch and not-Anthea's, he read,

'_Holmes Sr car arr. amb called D.O.A.'_

Well.

Shit.

(**AN: **I don't write dialogue very often, for one reason: I _suck_ at it. So I apologize for that. It's probably because I am very bad at speaking to people. I'm awkward. Sorry. Also aargh this is so much longer than I intended and it would have been even longer if I wasn't so damned tired. It was supposed to delve into the root of the Holmes Brothers Feud. Ah well. Next time. Anyway your reviews, as always, are utterly lovely and I love you all, probably more than most of my family members! At least my daddy isn't like Lysander Holmes, though, yech. A bit of my personal headcanon was shown here; Mycroft was always Mummy's favourite, until he 'upset her', and Father preferred Sherlock. So yeah. 'Til next chapter!)

((EDIT: Changed mummy and father's names to the canon doyle ones.)


	7. Chapter 7

When Mycroft was thirty-two, he met Gregory Lestrade for the first time. Sherlock had been arrested for possession of illegal drugs, and Mycroft had come to bail him out. Normally he had someone do it for him, but this had been the first arrest in a while and he was curious. He arrived at the police station and was making his way to the holding cells when he heard a rather one-sided argument.

"... know you can't consult when you're high!" Clearly this person was talking to Sherlock, and his voice was vaguely familiar. It frustrated Mycroft to be unable to put a name to a face, or voice. He heard Sherlock's deep baritone respond something snarky.

Walking a little further, he found himself in front of the cell containing his baby brother. Neither Sherlock or DI Lestrade (Mycroft recognized the stance and build from his CCTV cameras) seemed to notice him. He cleared his throat.

Lestrade cut off mid-rant and gave Sherlock a pithy look before turning to Mycroft.

Tossing his head in Sherlock's direction, he asked, "You here for him?"

Mycroft had to swallow a few times before answering. "Ah, yes. I am Mycroft Holmes." Lestrade snorted, then grinned.

"He always been like this, then?" Mycroft responded with a small smile of his own.

"Unfortunately. He's actually improved, thanks to your influence, I assume?" Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"No, thanks to all these bloody convoluted cases that he manages to solve while under the influence, despite the fact that he is _not allowed on crime scenes while intoxicated._" The last bit of this statement was snapped at Sherlock. The surly man scowled up at his brother and the detective.

"Are you quite finished discussing me as though I were not in the room?" He sniffed- a little to hard for the derisive sniff he was going for. Cocaine, then. Mycroft turned his blue gaze on his brother and eyed him with a moue of disappointment (he had practiced it quite a bit since Sherlock's public school days). Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Right, well, come with me, we'll see about bail."

After bail had been posted, Sherlock had been bundled into the back of Mycroft's car, and they sped off to Mycroft's flat (he had asked not-Anthea to clear any breakables or valuables from the flat before he left for the station). Mycroft was staring out the window, analyzing his reaction to the DI. Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock was doing the same.

"He's married, by the way." Mycroft was perfectly aware of this, just as he was aware that it was not a particularly happy marriage, if the state of the man's ring, shoes, and gait were anything to go by.

"And straight." This was said a bit louder, and waspishly. Mycroft gave an amused scoff. Sherlock scowled, and mulishly ignored him for the rest of the trip. This had the exact opposite effect he was hoping for, though.

That night, as Mycroft sat by Sherlock's side, watching him writhe and toss as the withdrawal wracked his system, he thought of DI Lestrade.

A month later, he found himself in a similar position.

"Sir, your brother's been arrested. Shall I send someone down to place bail and pick him up?" Anthea asked. Mycroft had 'yes' on the tip of his tongue but then he realized that this would give him an excuse to see the DI. Perhaps a little pathetic, but Mycroft was nursing his first crush since university and unlike that young man, Gregory Lestrade was worth crushing on.

Not that those would be Mycroft's words, of course.

"Sir?" Oh, right. Conversations required speaking aloud.

"No, I will fetch him myself." If Anthea was surprised she didn't show it.

"Very good, sir."

The station was quiet. This was probably because it was three in the morning. Mycroft strolled right on up to Lestrade.

"What's he on this time?" Like Mycroft didn't know exactly why Sherlock had been arrested. Lestrade jumped.

"Christ, you Holmeses need to wear bells." He regained his composure. "He's not actually on anything, this time. He just, well. He punched an officer." Mycroft nodded sagely.

"Yes, he's had trouble with authority figures since he could walk, but I suppose you've figured that out." Probably around the time the DI had started letting Sherlock kip on his couch, or introduced him to his son. Mycroft had actually assigned a minor security detail to little Rupert Lestrade, just in case. Lestrade just gave him a look.

"It's nice not to have someone question my intelligence." He said, casually. Only not really, because his whole stance was very rigid. Like he thought Mycroft was making fun of him. Silly man, the only one Mycroft ever made fun of was Sherlock. He knew only too well what it was like to be on the other end of that whole thing.

"You mustn't put too much stock in what Sherlock says. About cases, absolutely, but in terms of anything to do with other people, well. Let's just say he's not a leading expert." Lestrade gave him a funny smile. Mycroft rather liked that funny smile and ignored what it did to his stomach.

Mycroft generally ignored his stomach until he started shaking from low blood pressure.

They walked down to the cells, but Lestrade stopped him a little before Sherlock's, just out of earshot.

"Look, Sherlock told me about the CCTV cameras, alright? So I know you know why he's here. And. Well I'd appreciate it if you didn't kidnap me, I have enough stress in my life right now." Well that was a little surprising, but nothing he hadn't suspected. He gave a gracious nod, and Lestrade licked his lips a little nervously. Mycroft caught the action and pretended it didn't send a little zip of arousal down his spine. No, not here, he could think about that lovely mouth at home and then feel guilty about it where there was cake to take his feelings out on.

Don't think about cake.

"Right." Lestrade said determinately. They continued down to where Sherlock was sulking. Sherlock refused to come back to Mycroft's flat, so he texted a quick request for Anthea to have some money transferred to Sherlock's account, just so he could stay at a hostel or get food or something. He may have halted Sherlock's allowance but he still wanted to care for him.

"Sherlock," he called, as his baby brother started to stalk away. "Don't you want to know when the funeral is?" Sherlock stopped. He turned brusquely around and walked back over to Mycroft.

"What."

"Technically, I believe the correct word is 'when' or at least 'where'." Sherlock was unamused. Mycroft sighed. "Friday, five o'clock, Grandfather's estate. Sherrinford has returned from India, he will be there." Sherlock nodded, and disappeared into the night.

Lestrade looked awkward.

"If you don't mind my asking?" Mycroft nodded his permission. "Whose funeral?"

"Our father's." The awkward look increased in intensity.

"God, I'm sorry." Mycroft actually laughed, a horrid, brittle thing.

"Please don't be, Detective Inspector. I'm not." Uh oh, Lestrade was looking at him with Detective Eyes. The man didn't get as far as he did because of Sherlock, after all. He sucked his teeth.

"Right. So, until next time?" Lestrade grinned wryly at Mycroft.

"I look forward to it." Mycroft's car pulled up. Before he got in, he turned to Lestrade.

" If I promise not to kidnap you, as per your crude vernacular, would you agree to tea every so often? To, ah, touch base, as it were." Oh _God that he doesn't believe in, _what is he doing? He's practically asking the man out, that's what. This is going to come crashing down around his ears.

To his surprise and delight (not that it shows on his face), Lestrade's grin widened.

"Sounds lovely." He held out a hand. Mycroft placed his own inside it delicately, and enjoyed the rush of... _something _that went down his back when Lestrade squeezed it.

"I'll send a car," he promised, warmth seeping into his voice. Damn, he'd trained it not to do that. Cursed hormones.

As he rode back to his flat, Mycroft sat back, and calculated when Lestrade's marriage wouldl be in such a state that he'd be welcome to a proposition from another man. He and Anthea shared a small smile.

* * *

(**AN**: So I re-read this and noticed that I was switching tenses! I was properly ashamed and have fixed things that were supposed to be in past tense. If you notice present tense that's because Mycroft is thinking something. Right. Well, bye.)


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft kissed Greg for the first time when he was thirty eight.

Sherlock had been dead for a year. Mycroft had thrown himself into his work, moreso than while his little brother - his baby brother, the one he was supposed to protect, dammit, why couldn't he do anything right -

Stop it. That line of thinking is not helpful. Breathe.

Mycroft had probably lost twenty pounds since Sherlock's funeral, and it could be seen clearly in his gaunt cheekbones and starkly pronounced collar bones and shoulders, and, fuck, he hadn't been this thin since his brief battle with anorexia in high school, shortly after he found out he liked boys.

He found he was swearing more.

At first Mycroft had been tempted to go to Baker Street and be miserable there, where John and Mrs Hudson could join in, but he had the distinct impression that John would cause him bodily harm if he tried that, so. He tried getting drunk but Mycroft had never really been fond of the taste of alcohol, so that was out, too. His only available outlets were food and work, and he could _hear _Sherlock's ghost taunting him about his waistline, so work it was. His job was a little hard to describe, but rest assured, he excelled. Worked until he passed out, drank a little water when he woke up and then started working again. He ate only when Anthea placed food in front of him. He wore immaculate suits and shaved and manicured and was, as ever, perfectly polished in every way, but for the first time in his life he really didn't care.

He had no idea why. He and Sherlock hadn't been close since before Mycroft left for university. Perhaps he had always just been secure in the knowledge that Sherlock was _there_, that there was someone on this horrid planet who understood him. Someone who was more baffled by people and the world than he was.

One night he was going over figures related to the Olympics when he decided he would just give up. Everything. Mummy was ignoring him, blamed him for Sherlock's death, and why wouldn't she? Mycroft did, too. God, if only he hadn't let himself be manipulated by that - that _spider, _maybe Sherlock would still be alive, maybe -

Mycroft took a deep breath.

He was being emotional. God, of course he was. He had never been able to just - just shut off like Sherlock could. Mycroft felt _everything. _All the time. And he saw everything, too, just like Sherlock, only better, because Mycroft understood why a woman would use the name of a daughter she miscarried a decade earlier as a password. Sherrinford was just the emotions, he didn't see anything. It was infuriating, and as children Mycroft and Sherlock had teased him for it. Sherlock had thought Mycroft was like him, that Mycroft could shut off his emotions because _'caring is not an advantage' _but he was so, so wrong.

It had taken Mycroft thirty eight years but he was coming to grips with the fact that there was nothing wrong with crying because the boys in your class called you a queen, a fag, a fairy. There was nothing wrong with taking pleasure in ruining the life of the boy who took your virginity. Well, okay, maybe a little. But it was normal.

God.

_Normal._

Sherlock would be disgusted with him.

Mycroft was beginning to suspect that Anthea had given him something other than juice. He distantly remembered her talking about something called a 'cooler' and how it didn't taste like alcohol and oh heavens above his assistant had _drugged him. _He was not nearly as horrified as he should have been. He actually felt something he suspected was pride.

Well, okay, not normal then.

Good. He decided it would be prudent to abandon paperwork while smashed. So he called a car and went to visit Sherlock's grave.

Avoidance, his dear, close friend.

Sherlock's headstone was shiny and black, rather like the piece of sand-smoothed glass they had found once on holiday. But bigger. And not made of glass. Mycroft walked up to the headstone with as much dignity as he could manage while absolutely shitfaced. He then promptly collapsed on the grass.

He stared at the words on the marble. He stared at them until they stopped making sense. He could feel the wetness of dew soaking into his trousers, knew that there were going to be grass-stains, not caring. He remembered a four-year old Sherlock tumbling into the creek behind their grandparent's house, emerging muddy and wet and pleased with himself, holding a disgruntled frog. He remembered his mother's horror and his father's displeasure. He remembered herding Sherlock into the bathroom and listening as the child rambled off all he knew about amphibians, which, for his age, was quite a lot. He remembered his grandmother petting his unfortunately bright hair and murmuring that he'd make a good parent someday. He remembered thinking that was absolute poppycock.

He noted absently that his face was wet. And that it was very dark and he was very drunk and he was very lonely.

He remembered thirteen year old Sherlock complaining in a letter about hormones and how they made idiots of perfectly decent people, if not previously intelligent ones. He remembered Sherlock denouncing human love and affection as mere chemical reactions and telling him to come back and tell that to Mycroft when Sherlock was older. He remembered Sherlock doing so, exactly three years later. He remembered watching Sherlock interact with John, and thinking, _'chemical reactions my hat'. _Because even in his thought Mycroft was not fond of crude language. Previous curses excepted, since he was drunk.

"Bloody hell you are _drunk," _a startled voice came from... a general east-ish direction. Mycroft turned to see Rupert Lestrade gaping at him. Why was the teenager in a graveyard in the middle of the night? Mycroft pondered, and then remembered some of the things that Sherlock did as a teenager, and cast the thought away.

"Yeah, Dad? You know Sh... Mycroft? Yeah him. Um. I need you to pick us up. Um, the cemetery. What? Bugger why _I'm _here. Just get here, okay? Please? Okay, thank you. Bye."

There were hands in his armpits and Mycroft was not pleased. The last time he checked Rupert was still tiny, and Mycroft had not authorized this growth spurt. A growth spurt that apparently enabled him to practically pick Mycroft up, and that was just not on.

"Christ, when is the last time you ate?" Rupert slung one of Mycroft's arms around his shoulders and ambled towards the entryway. They were intercepted by an imposing woman in black.

"Rupert Lestrade, I have clearance, he's plastered and my dad is going to look after him. Piss off." The imposing woman looked to Mycroft for confirmation and he waved her away irritably. Could she not see that he was drunk and wanted to be miserable? For that matter, couldn't Rupert?

Apparently not, since the next time he opened his eyes he was in the passenger seat of Lestrade's beaten down Honda.

"... need to stop sneaking out of the house, I don't care if you don't like her boyfriend, Rupert, it is not _safe _for a fourteen year old to wander around graveyards _by themselves_ at _night._" Mycroft looked to his right. Oh, Lestrade. Beautiful, kind, patient, lovely Lestrade.

He might have said that out loud.

Ah, good, no one noticed. Lestrade was too busy lecturing his son. Rupert appeared to be ignoring him. Sherlock used to ignore people, too. Oh, damn, tears, why. He had to remember to ask Anthea about surgery to remove his tear ducts.

His disgruntled huff at the fact that he was just leaking emotions everywhere drew Lestrade's attention to him. Mycroft was treated to warm smile that he didn't know quite what to make of.

"Where are we going?" Eurgh, his voice was awful. Like that one time he was drunk with a few members of the MI5 and had decided that he was going to perfect fellatio. Damn, he'd almost forgotten about that. Lestrade put his hand out, like he was going to touch Mycroft, but he thought better of it and rested it on the wheel.

"My flat. I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone right now." He said firmly. Mycroft grumbled and closed his eyes.

When he opened them he was treated to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling. He frowned. He hadn't engaged in anonymous sex for quite some time so -

Oh, right, Lestrade.

Hmm, anonymous sex with Lestrade... well it wouldn't be anonymous. Sex with Lestrade... no don't do that.

His head hurt. He usually walked around with some degree of headache, high stress job and all, but it _really _hurt. He heard footsteps and winced at each one.

Someone stood next to him and shook a bottle of pills.

"You get these if you tell me why you were drunk all over your brother's grave." Hello, Lestrade's face. Mycroft frowned again, unable to summon the energy it would take to scowl.

"Well it's not like I planned it," he grouched. Mycroft supposed he didn't have to be unfailingly polite right now. Which was good, because he didn't want to be.

"I have water, too. Cold water." _Bastard._

"My assistant drugged me. I asked her to bring me juice and she quite clearly did not." Pills now?

"Why were you at Sherlock's grave?" Apparently not. Mycroft made a face.

"Why not? He is. Was. My brother." Lestrade snorted and Mycroft grimaced.

"Yeah well you weren't particularly close." Lestrade was damn lucky Mycroft had a stupid crush on him otherwise he would be out of a job for the way he was torturing Mycroft.

"I was reminiscing." Pills _now?_ Oh, yes, huzzah. And water, Mycroft liked the world a little more.

"Have you been eating?" Mycroft blinked at him.

"That was an impressive segue, Detective Inspector." He remarked sourly, still achy and more than a little embarrassed and sort of kind of contemplating suicide. He eyed the pills, but Lestrade had tucked them away... somewhere. Lestrade just kept _looking _at him, damn, that must be a trick they teach you at police school or something. Mycroft just looked back. He was the _British Government, _and he had grown up with Sherlock, so if anyone could win a staring competition, it was him. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Fine, then. If you can tell me the last time you ate, and if it was in the last eight hours, I won't order takeaway." Mycroft thought about that for a moment and drew a blank. He raised an eyebrow at the DI. Said man just sighed heavily and walked into the kitchen.

Mycroft was contemplating the fact that he was not wearing his usual suit when Lestrade re-entered the room.

"I hope you like curry because the Indian place down the street's the only one that's open."

"Where are my clothes?" Mycroft wondered at the intense flush that spread across the DI's face. And neck. And - oh, and his _ears, _that was just too cute.

Mycroft was probably still a little drunk. The British Government did not normally use words like _cute. _

(But The British Government _did _wonder just how far down that blush went.)

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well they were fairly damp so I hung them up in the bathroom to dry out." Mycroft nodded, trying for imperious and probably landing somewhere around something-is-in-my-shoe. He noted sourly that Lestrade was trying to hide a smile. He sat up and wavered, and then carefully lifted himself up off the couch. He gave Lestrade a Look, and the man pointed in the direction of the bathroom.

Before he could get his suit on, Mycroft's body threw a coup and he found himself gagging on stomach acid over the toilet. Blegh. He never could understand the appeal of bulimia, Sherlock's nasty suggestions aside.

Pulling his clothes on with perhaps a little less care than the finely crafted suit deserved, Mycroft caught sight of himself in the mirror. And oh, wasn't that something. Perhaps that's why Anthea hadn't let him attend any meetings in person, lately. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy from sleeplessness and crying, the tiny purple veins in his cheeks stood out like red wine on a wedding dress, and his hair was doing its damnedest to impersonate a hedgehog.

'That's attractive,' he thought miserably. 'Hung-over and pathetic in the home of a man with whom you've been in love with since he stood up to your brother, which is more than you could ever do.'

Never let it be said that Holmeses are not dramatic.

Once he was dressed and he had managed to tame his hair, sort of, Mycroft exited the bathroom and gave his thanks to Lestrade, pressing the button on his phone that summoned a car to his location. He was quick to leave the flat, Lestrade protesting loudly behind him.

Seated in the car, he rubbed his temples and wondered how he had managed to let himself get to his current state. He resolved to eat a full, healthy meal upon arriving at his flat, and then he would sleep for a good twelve hours.

He was Mycroft Holmes and he was taking back control of his life.

* * *

A week later a lot of things were different.

For one, Sherlock was alive.

Mycroft had stumbled into his study, exhausted, since insomnia wasn't something one could simply wish away, looking for his copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring. _If he couldn't sleep then he was going to read some wordy fantasy novels and listen to jazz music and maybe, possibly, eat an entire cheesecake.

He could eat his feelings if he wanted to.

Well, anyway, he was puttering around his study, too tired to see or hear more than what was three feet away from him, when a hauntingly familiar voice called to him from the shadows.

"You haven't been eating."

Mycroft did _not _scream, thank you very much, despite what Sherlock may tell you. He did, however, drop his book and stare in Sherlock's direction like an idiot.

'Oh heavens,' he thought faintly, 'I'm Ebenezer Scrooge.' Sherlock sighed disdainfully and stepped into the light.

The younger Holmes was a tad worse for wear. He, too, had lost weight, but instead of looking like a walking skeleton, as Mycroft did, it just made him look more regal, his cheekbones standing starkly out from his face, casting dramatic shadows. His hair was longer than usual, too, and his right eye was blackened. He was also dressed much more casually than usual, a worn rock tee shirt and jeans, Doc Martens, and a beaten up old duster instead of his Balstaff. Mycroft hoped he hadn't lost it, that coat had cost an awful lot of money.

Giving his younger brother a quick once-over, Mycroft nodded, lips pursed. The benefit of being a Holmes, he supposed. Words were not required to play catch-up.

Sherlock had been in America, tracking, Mycroft suspected, the last of Moriarty's men. He had returned sooner than he had planned, most likely because...

"What do you need?" Sherlock's lips quirked.

An hour and a lot of information later, Sherlock left.

At first Mycroft wondered if he should tell John, or even Lestrade. But, no, that wouldn't end well. Should John learn that Sherlock was not, in fact, dead, it would almost certainly put his life at risk. If Moriarty had any remaining orders to kill Sherlock's loved ones (and oh, how it stung that he was not on that list), it would put not only John, but Mrs Hudson and Lestrade at risk.

Not to mention, Mycroft was avoiding Lestrade, and had been for the past week.

(It bears mentioning that Mycroft was, in fact, on a different list. Sherlock just didn't tell him.)

Call him ridiculous, but Mycroft just was not equipped to handle the sheer embarrassment of the last week's events. No. Just no. There was no way he'd be able to look Lestrade in the eye after being picked up by the man's teenage son and coddled like, well, a hungover friend.

They weren't friends. They just met occasionally to discuss Sherlock and now that there was no Sherlock they had nothing to discuss. Only...

"_God, I get so sick of Sherlock's pathetic acting." Mycroft looked at Lestrade quizzically. The man gestured with his fork, "You know, he sneaks into the homes of the deceased pretending to be a friend or relative and his acting is truly awful."_

_Mycroft chuckled, "And I suppose you would be an authority?" Lestrade grinned widely._

"_Yes, actually! I wanted to be an actor but then decided it wasn't practical. I was the best damn Hamlet my school ever saw. I took loads of classes instead of doing my A-levels, which was probably poor judgement on my part, but it was the best time of my life. It was how I met..." Lestrade faltered, the spark in his eyes dimming. Mycroft was quick to change the subject._

"_How is Rupert faring at his new school?"_

He could tell Lestrade. If Moriarty had left orders for Lestrade, John, and Mrs Hudson to be executed in the wake of Sherlock's survival, then there was no danger telling Lestrade. The man was an excellent actor, he would give no outward signs of this new information.

Yes, he would tell Lestrade.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was not panicking. Holmeses did not panic. Ergo, he was not panicking, Anthea's worries looks aside.

He had invited Lestrade over to his flat, and the man was most likely under the impression that Mycroft wanted to apologize for his conduct the previous week. Mycroft _did _want to apologize- but he had other, more pressing, things he wanted to say. Namely, Sherlock's survival. Mycroft had created a whole speech to relay the information to Lestrade, but as the arranged meeting time drew nearer, he found that he could barely remember it.

Thus, the non-panicking.

And there was the doorbell.

Truthfully, letting Anthea or someone else open the door and shepherd the DI into the sitting room, where Mycroft was waiting, would have helped maintain his reputation of omniscience, but Mycroft was- nervous. Not panicky. Nervous.

So he opened the door himself, and forgot how to use his words when he saw Lestrade standing there, looking determined. He cleared his throat and ushered the other man inside.

"May I offer you something to drink?" Mycroft asked quietly. Lestrade shook his head.

"Let's just cut to the chase, shall we? It sounded important." Mycroft nodded. He led Lestrade into the sitting room.

"You might want to sit down," He cautioned. Lestrade looked concerned and he sat down carefully. Mycroft remained standing.

"There is something of great import that I have to tell you." Lestrade's expression wavered into something... different. Then he smiled.

"Mycroft, I think I know what it is." Now Mycroft was confused. It didn't show, but still. Did the officer know something he did not?

"Do you?" Mycroft's tone was serious, even if Lestrade wasn't. He stood and stepped closer to Mycroft.

"Well you haven't been exactly subtle about it," the man teased. Now, Mycroft was worried. Had he really been so obvious?

"Detective Inspector, I-"

Lestrade cut him off.

With his mouth.

On Mycroft's.

_Well._

Mycroft froze. Lestrade's hands came up to cup Mycroft's gaunt cheeks, his tongue sweeping across Mycroft's lower lip.

Mycroft unfroze.

He clutched Lestrade's shoulders, and tilted his head, his lips parting to allow Lestrade entry. His actions pulled a soft groan from Lestrade, and their kiss deepened. Mycroft's tongue brushed across Lestrade's own, coaxing another soft sound from the man.

While lovely, this really was not what Mycroft had intended to happen. He still needed to tell Lestrade about Sherlock, after all.

He slowed the kiss down, closing his mouth, though that didn't deter Lestrade. The man pressed a series of sweet, chaste kisses to Mycroft's closed mouth, humming in pleasure. Mycroft moved his hands from Lestrade's shoulders to his face, thumbs stroking over the tan, weathered cheeks. He pulled away reluctantly.

"That was lovely," Mycroft gave Lestrade a small smile, "but it wasn't what I called you here to discuss." Lestrade faltered.

"Don't misunderstand, I've wanted that... I've wanted _you_... for a very long time, but there was something else I wanted to tell you, Detective." Lestrade gave Mycroft a wry grin.

"I think you can call me Greg, Mycroft." Mycroft smiled, and said,

"Well, Greg, I think you should know: Sherlock is alive."

* * *

**AN: **I am a despicable human being, making you guys wait like. A month? For an update. Mea culpa, mea culpa. I didn't know where to go with this one but I think it went in an okay direction? Am I wrong? /le shrug So yeah hope you enjoyed!


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